The first true test came at dawn.
The army had marched three weeks when scouts galloped back, mud streaking their cloaks, fear sharp in their eyes.
“Varrow’s host!” one cried. “They ride to cut us off—two days ahead lies Frostfield Pass, and his riders hold it!”
A chill swept the council tent. The Frostfields were a vast expanse of snow-laden plains leading to a narrow gorge. To be trapped there meant certain slaughter.
Cael bent over the maps, his finger tracing the route. “If we falter, our supplies will be lost. If we retreat, morale dies. We must take the pass.”
Lord Bram slammed his fist onto the table. “The pass is cursed ground. Too narrow for maneuver, too wide for ambush. It will be slaughter!”
Elira’s voice cut through. “Then better it be us who stand upon it, not Varrow. W
